Phantosmia of Rain

Pour me into your looking glass;
let me be the beacon
through which you peer into
the unknowing ages.

I see you there,
alone
but
immersed within the self
and the act of raising,
and my heart wishes it could
only aid what is growing faster
than it could grasp.

I think of what attraction means
as the days slide through me
aging my skin,
or what of
love and passion.

I see it all in you,
but
I know not what it is made of.
Is it in a quiet moment
that you became this beautiful?
The laughter of the self?
Could I attend to your becoming?
Would you let me in your locked doors?


Attached to the mind I am,
and as the glory goes -
and the stories share -
I find laughter hidden underneath your tongue.

If I were to hold you,
would it be more than skin on skin?

I am not so bold as of a man,
I give in to the innards of giving up,
but
when I speak and seek you
I am much like a storm
that spits soft rain upon your flesh.
I may only be temporary,
but
you will remember
the scent of my spilling
on the asphalt you walk upon.

The muse of my music and the heart of my art,
would you bare yourself to me when we are alone and cold?


There is no need for my pen strokes
to construct anything better,
and no ability to chip off what is there
to place somewhere else.

Everything that I am
is a mirage
of a fading man-
only the mirage before
the real water in me is found.

I find myself smiling
with sincerity again,
I find myself
with a need to move up
and onward.

I cater to myself
in springs of seasons
that sprout seeds up
as a ressurection
of weathered years.

I light a bonfire on the coast
in your savage name and
sing the rain song hoping you can hear it.